


from the front (in more ways than one)

by ccauchemar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Explicit Consent, F/F, Oral Fixation, Their options are limited so :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccauchemar/pseuds/ccauchemar
Summary: It doesn’t count as fucking yourself if your alter is the one controlling your arms, does it?





	from the front (in more ways than one)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been very defensive over this fic since i posted it because some fool thought it was a recount and not fiction so a) fuck you sir and b) i'm rewriting this intro for the sake of my sanity
> 
> sexual stories are going to be based on either experience or speculation so if the idea of people with "weird" mental illnesses having sex freaks you out gtfo

It had been a long day, and Amélie Lacroix was tired.

Too many thoughts buzzed in her head, scattered and irritating. Her ability to focus was close to nil; a busy day of errands did that to the ex-sniper. Too much information, too little time. What she needed was a nice glass of wine and a movie or two, an evening of nothing and maybe a catnap on the couch. Quiet, relaxing, peaceful.

If nobody intervened.

Her private apartment was silent and still. The lights were off, and orange, late dusk light filtered in through the cracks in the roller blinds; the apartment was shaded dark blue, and the air was still. Distantly, birds chirped and cawed their desire to sleep.

She poured herself a glass of her favourite white wine in the cool shadows of the kitchen, leaning on the counter. A drink, maybe a shower, and then another drink if I haven’t finished this one, she thought.

It could not have been more perfect, and she lifted the glass to her lips with a little sigh.

 _Bonjour, chérie,_ said a voice from the back of her head, and Amélie choked on her wine.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Do you _really_ have to do that?” she huffed.

A heavy, buzzing presence settled over the back of her head, as if leaning on her shoulders. _No. But it’s fun,_ said the voice.

“I'm having an evening alone,” said Amélie, and capped the bottle.

 _I can tell,_ said the dry, soundless voice, in the empty and silent apartment. _Would you care for some company?_

Amélie wasn't one to pass up some quiet company, but the volatile nature of her other half sometimes took her off guard, even now. Even as quickly as conversations could happen and as quickly as things could change between them, the spider still held an air of unpredictability.

It wasn't that she was unused to her behavioural patterns, it was that those patterns had slow, indifferent lulls between spikes of activity driven by such intense hyperfocus it was difficult to swerve her into another path. Time and practice had eased it into something manageable, but her need for control was still a fearsome beast with teeth and talons.

And she was waiting.

“I don't mind, _Fatale_ ,” Amélie said. “Come with me.”

_Don't I always?_

That got a soft laugh out of her, and she made her way to the couch. Amélie made herself comfortable against a pile of pillows, and pressed buttons on the tv remote. Seconds later, she felt a faint pressure and tingling along the left side of her body, signalling that her alter was leaning on her.

 _What are you watching?_ , she asked, draping her “arm” over Amélie.

Amélie clicked the remote, scrolling through a list of movies. “I don't know. I just want to fill the time.”

Static crept up Amélie's hand, and suddenly the hand holding the remote was not her own. A distinctly _deep indigo_ feeling compared to her usual, and it clicked through the movies with a rhythm, selecting a harmless romcom.

“Really?” Amélie asked, and she felt her shadow huff.

 _Let me have my fun,_ the Widow grumbled.

Amélie smiled either way and, when she got her hand back, settled with her drink. She'd only had a sip, and she swirled it, slowly. She could feel that Fatale didn't want her to drink it yet, though she hadn't said a word. Why though, she could only guess, as not all their thoughts intermingled. A lot of things were locked away, behind an impenetrable dissociative wall.

Mostly violent thoughts. Bruised and bloody thoughts. Hot metal and cold, empty, abyssal nothingness, or the rush of focus and flow of fighting. Things she could never imagine herself doing, things she worried she had had a hand in doing, or things she maybe even enjoyed. Atrocities and adrenaline and _what if that had been me_ -

“You're worrying again,” Amélie found herself saying, voice pitched lower than usual. She blinked.

“Relax,” said Fatale, aloud, and Amélie did just that in the arm of the sofa. “What I've done,” she continued, “has no bearing on you.”

Amélie swallowed, nodded. The movie played onwards, a dashing butch woman fidgeting with her flowery pin-decorated suspenders and stuttering in front of her new neighbour, a beautiful lady in a yellow sundress that shone against her deep brown skin. Amélie zoned out as the butch offered dinner and the femme declined, offering her a tulip from her garden instead.

 _“Don't you know flower meanings?”_ the spider echoed, repeating the lines she'd seen a hundred times before. “ _We might as well just go to dinner if you plan to give me that!_ ”

“Stop using my mouth,” Amélie said.

“It's my mouth too.”

“No it's _not_. Yes it is~ No it's not, it's not! It is! It's weird when I'm fronting! As if we have more? You know damn well what I mean, Widow. Don't use the nickname- I'll use the nickname all I please! Why are you such a let go of my mouth no yes no m- why- _fuck-_ ”

Amélie dissolved into laughter, snorting on the inhale, as their words tripped over one another and crashed into stuttering. Fatale draped herself bodily over Amélie in their personal, intangible inner world, chuckling and nosing behind her ear.

 _Amélie_ , Fatale cooed adoringly, under the giggles. She slipped her left hand into their body like a ghost to a glove, and cupped Amélie’s right cheek, brushing her fingers over her ear.

Amélie groaned, barely able to form a coherent sentence under the mixed feelings. _So this is why she didn't want me drinking yet,_ she managed to think.

The mental pressure grew stronger, a cloying cloud of white noise that overwhelmed Amélie's senses. Like her mind was being pinned down, her limbs growing weaker against the sheer force of being Fatale possessed. _I can't hear you,_ came a purr, sultry and soft as if it were right next to her ear itself, as the hand that was not her own dragged against her skin.

 _Mmm, Fatale, oh my God let me_ – “Let me _think_ ,” Amélie growled.

Fatale backed off immediately, and the static withdrew. In the new bubble of mental clarity, Amélie found her left hand had crept down to cup her throat. She placed that hand in her lap, and sighed hard.

“You will _wait_ and _ask permission_ before doing things like that. Are we clear?” she snapped, frowning through the heavy rise and fall of her chest. “You're falling back into bad habits.”

There was taut silence. Then, _Understood. I'm sorry_.

“Give me at _least_ five minutes to recover, and wait for me to voice consent or dissent when I am _not_ aroused. Do you understand me?”

She felt the mental nod, though it betrayed no emotion. _Yes ma'am._

Amélie barely quirked her lips into a smile at the deference, and the nagging impulse to check the time. “Thank you. Just... Please. Give me space.”

Another nod, and Amélie checked the time to placate Fatale’s urgency. 7:21 pm, 35 seconds.

36\. 37. 38.

Fatale was still and silent, staring and waiting. Amélie knew she would not act, honouring her promise of space, watching like a hawk. _Like a sniper,_ Amélie thought, amused. A wordless sense of agreement followed.

Amélie considered her options. She could stick with her movie and wine, or she could have sex with her obviously determined and dogged… companion, a hypersexual thing who she often found going at it in their mental inner world if she wasn't doing it from the front of their mind. It was a venting process for what they'd experienced, yes, but it meant things got interesting when they cooperated.

So, Amélie could have a very lonely evening, or she could have a very busy one.

She checked the time. 7:24 pm. 33. 34. 35.

 _It's only been four minutes_ , said Fatale, unmoving.

“I'm not done,” Amélie murmured. She let the questions stew for the final minute, just to be sure, and then hummed.

“I wouldn't mind,” she decided, “doing things with you.”

_Sexual things?_

“Oh, yes.”

_Are you sure?_

“ _Oui, Fatale_ ,” Amélie purred, and she could feel the spider’s stomach flutter.

Then she smiled and drew herself up to her full imperious height, and Amélie wondered why she’d tried.

 _Bed._ **_Now_** _._

Amélie shivered and all but scrambled off the couch, abandoning her whole setup, one hand on the wall for support, stumbling when Fatale tried to remove their socks and skirt with one hand.

“Wait til we sit _down_ ,” Amélie giggled, as her alter struggled with the limited kinetic control.

The spider growled. In one fluid motion of protest she surged onto the front, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed their body into the wall, making Amélie physically gasp.

Fatale cupped the dancer’s cheek as she had done before, using the left hand to hold her face and the right to massage her clothed waist, successfully drawing a groan from Amélie, who leaned into the hand that held her jaw. Her arms were crossing her chest, an inevitable part of the deal they’d been landed.

It wasn't often that Amélie could perceive her other half clearly, and she tried to concentrate as she panted. Their forms were normally indistinct to one another, and vague. But sometimes, when they focused, details became clearer. The curve of a jaw. The pressure of a hand. Subtlety of expression, and soft, pliant lips, when it mattered.

It was a demanding use of focus, but in times like these, Fatale relished it.

She relished in knowing that Amélie could see her _and_ feel her creep her hand up, bunching her button up shirt. She relished feeling her body move as she did, muscle coiling tight and relaxing under smooth skin. She relished pressing close, so close, curling around her like a shroud, and biting her lip with a smirk, digging her nails into her side-

“Slow down,” Amélie murmured.

Fatale froze. She was being possessive again. Twice in one night without asking? _Shameful_ , she thought.

Amélie offered a gentle pulse of forgiveness for her shame, and Fatale relaxed. Then she remembered she had something to do, and ran both hands over Amélie, her shoulders, her waist, wanting to touch as much of her as possible. Unaware of anything but trying to move her hands, Fatale crumpled the shirt and creased the skirt more than she provided stimulation.

Amélie gave a breathless laugh. “Let me take my clothes off, silly,” she soothed, and as Fatale realised how ineffectively she was acting, she felt very silly indeed.

Amélie felt the control ebb back into her hands, and smiled mischievously. They had stopped, yes, but now there wasn't an inch of her under her alter’s influence. She was in control.

She closed the bedroom door and walked slowly, slowly to the bed, swinging her hips with every step. She turned, and sat, poised, on the edge of the bed, staring at the point where Fatale seemed to be, where she knew she would be watching, as she undid the top button of her shirt.

She could feel the prickle of her alter’s vision as she moved down each button; an intense focus that felt like it drilled static-hot through her body. She could feel the yearning, and that strange feeling of watching yourself move, the third person autopilot.

 _Keep it together,_ she thought to herself, and steadied her hold on the front. The wavering feeling of dissociation lessened, and she solidified in the present, with her deft fingers and pearly buttons.

Fatale watched, transfixed, as Amélie rolled her broad shoulders and exposed her long neck, slipping off the shirt and letting it drop to the bed. Felt Amélie bite her lip and lean back on her hands, arch her back and drag her toes up the back of her calf, and level a heated gaze directly at the air where her face would be.

Fatale was already worrying her lip and she groaned at the sight, unabashed and desperate. She was coiled tight like a spring, and Amélie knew that if she didn't get going soon, Fatale would explode. She reached up to caress her chest, kneading her breasts with both hands. The pleased sigh that left her was genuine, and she tweaked her nipple as she inhaled, showing off to the room. She saw herself in the sliding mirror door of the closet, and a mixed thrill went through her.

“You can look, but you can't touch,” she murmured, feeling the spider creep closer, and looked at her again. Fatale whined in the silence of their inner world, and stared at her with _burning hunger._ Amélie’s eyebrow twitched under the intense scrutiny. She licked her lips, and her eyes flicked back to the mirror. Something felt very wrong. She stopped her kneading, and curled inwards where she sat. Her ankles crossed, and she fidgeted her toes.

“How… do you do this?” she said, and her eyes dropped to her knees. “How are you so confident taking the lead...?”

Fatale sat next to Amélie on the bed, and there was an imperceptible feeling that the mattress should have dipped. She could feel the little ball of worry in her stomach. _It comes more naturally to me,_ she said. _Some actions and patterns come naturally to me, as some fee- ...experiences, are natural for you._

Amélie hummed lowly. “It's more natural for me to curl up beneath you and shut down.”

 _In what context,_ Fatale growled.

“Generally.”

 _I was hoping you didn't mean sexually, because I hate that,_ Fatale said, and ideas of much darker interactions between the two that she'd vowed never to repeat flickered between them.

Amélie leaned sideways against air, and looked at the mirror again. She could imagine her other half sitting on the edge of the bed with her, a centimetre taller than she. Her deep indigo aura and purple hair, like a concentrated version of what Talon had once made of them. And piercing, cool yellow eyes, which now gazed softly at them both. Her protective posture, arms ready to hold Amélie wherever she could.

A picture worth a lifetime of trust and cooperation, and the mirror showed nothing but their body.

Amélie breathed a shaky breath, and in the swell of distress, Fatale moved to cradle her. _Shhh, relax,_ she crooned. _Close your eyes… That's it… Relax,_ she murmured, caressing her with her fingertips.

Amélie moved her discarded shirt and lay back in the middle of the bed, cocooned by a feeling of safety. In some ways, eyes shut was preferable. There was less pretence of worrying about positioning in the physical world, and in their little inner world, they could see each other. Could see Fatale, hovering over her, worried.

“Do you consent?” Fatale whispered, drawn eyebrows painting a picture of worry.

Amélie leant into the invisible hand that cupped her cheek, and smiled. She felt Fatale’s excitement in a skip of their heart. “I do,” Amélie said, and reached up with her left hand to touch the air of her jaw.

Fatale leaned in to kiss her, taking the extended wrist with a gentle grip and ghosting inside, so she could again hold Amélie's face properly, and Amélie could properly cup the back of her neck. Fatale pressed tingly kisses against her lips, _warm and soft_ , and stroked their other hand across her stomach, drawing a soft, shaky intake of breath. Their inner world was one thing, but fundamentally, they occupied the same space. The same body.

Amélie lifted their right hand and went through the motion of curling her fingers against Fatale’s belly; she slid her invisible left hand down Fatale’s neck to her shoulder, and her back, and stroked her bony shoulder blade. Fatale gasped and arched up into the touch, left fingertips tightening against Amelie’s right cheek. She thumbed their soft face, her cheek, her lips. Amélie kissed the pad of her thumb, and was rewarded with gentle stroking motions, parting her lips and touching her teeth. She licked the probing digit and it curled into her mouth, pressing against her tongue.

Amélie swirled her tongue softly, and as she sucked, she felt pressure on her stomach - she realised, bemused, that her alter had once again taken control of both hands. Fatale awarded her observation by dragging fingers below her navel, and pressuring her mouth open with their left thumb. Amélie inhaled shakily, and her alter smiled.

 _There you are,_ Fatale purred, biting her lip.

 _Here I am,_ Amélie said, looking up through fluttery eyelashes, and Fatale just about fell in love with her all over again.

The thumb in Amélie's mouth glided over her lips, wetting them with a generous coating of saliva. She licked her lips out of habit, and the thumb pressed back against her. _Tastes like mouth,_ Amélie noted.

 _A delicacy,_ Fatale said, and slipped two fingers inside instead, holding Amélie's jaw steady. When she crept her other fingers down into the soft curls above her sex, Amélie bucked and gave an aggrieved squeak. Fatale giggled evilly, and walked those fingers around her pelvis and inner thighs as she moved in and out against her tongue.

Amélie huffed aloud. _Don't be mean,_ she breathed.

Fatale raised an eyebrow. _I could always be meaner,_ she said, and slid a single finger between the folds of her sex.

Amélie moaned. She hadn’t realised how pent up they were becoming, and the relief was heavenly, rolling her hips slowly against her own right hand. Sometimes, she thought, as she felt her hand curl and move in a way that was distinctly not her own, dissociation had its perks. A soft sigh left her, and she let her head drop back.

Then her alter smiled and, just like that, removed the finger.

Amélie slammed her eyes open and made an angry noise in protest. Her upset “Don't be MEAN!” was muffled around the fingers in her mouth.

Fatale laughed, waggling her fingers above Amélie’s sex, and pushed just past the second knuckle into her mouth, curling in with a rolling motion. _I'm sorry, did you say something?_ she said, rocking her hand against her face.

Amélie pouted, but the annoyance melted away under the spider’s attentions. Fatale was insistent and sensual, and as much as she enjoyed teasing Amélie, she much preferred results. A request to _spread your legs,_ and she curled two long fingers into those slick folds, tracing circles around her clit and dipping down to tease her entrance. She fell into a rhythm, lazily focused on Amélie's body, the soft panting into her hand, and the little moans she made when she moved her fingers _just so_.

But finding a rhythm wasn't all Fatale worried about. It was easy, too easy, for Amélie to fall into something like a trance during this. Fatale watched carefully for any signs of it, because those were the most dangerous times - she agreed to anything suggested to her and any memory of her actions was negligible. Time and practice had helped the pair recognise it, but it was still mostly up to the one in control, as it snowballed all too easily if missed.

 _S-Stop worrying,_ Amélie managed to say. _I'm okay…_

Fatale decided to comply as much as she could. There were better things she could be doing, like Amélie, and as she moved her right fingers in deep, sensual circles, she rubbed the slick pads of her left fingers against Amélie's lips, smearing saliva everywhere.

 _Twice the lips, twice the fun,_ Fatale murmured.

 _That's not sexy,_ Amélie complained, breathy and distracted.

 _Then use your tongue,_ Fatale said, making a crude V shape with her fingers. Amélie understood very quickly, and licked the fingers in front of her with the most love she could, probing and curling and sighing. All the while, Fatale continued the tight circuit between her legs, and the separate stimuli were starting to muddy her concentration. Amélie’s breathing was ragged, and she was losing track of what her hands were doing, focusing on the feeling instead. Her face was coated from nose to chin with spit, and the feeling of fingers rubbing against her sensitive lips was making her gasp. Focusing was difficult, and she moaned, loudly, and willingly handed every last inch of the reins to her alter.

 _That's my good girl,_ Fatale said, shakily, curling her form closer and closer over Amélie. Her eyes were half lidded, and she licked her lips repeatedly, pressing into the movement of Amélie’s bucking hips. _That's my sweet Amélie,_ she cooed. _Are you getting close? Do you want to come?_

 _Yes, yes, please,_ **_please_** _,_ Amélie babbled. _Please yes “-_ please _-” oh, “please_ let me come,” she cried, and Fatale kissed her, purring “ _come for me, Amélie_ ,” so close she could be possessed. Amélie’s breath caught and she came undone under her hands, distantly aware of her head thrust back and her feet sliding against the quilt and Fatale murmuring sweet nothings between her whimpers and drawn-out moans, hands and arms pressed against her, close and hot and alive.

“-such a _good girl_ , my sweet Amélie… That's it… ” Amelie found herself saying as she came down from the high, deep and sultry, and the movement of her hands became mellow. Her left hand wiped the spit from her mouth and onto the bedsheet, but she was too buzzed to complain about the mess. They could be washed later, came the reasoning.

Fatale cupped Amélie's cheek, brushing her cheekbone with her thumb. Amélie leant into it, sleepily, and stroked her knuckles.

“Was that good?” Fatale murmured. Her eyes shone as she propped herself above her lover.

“Oui,” Amélie breathed, and curled her legs up.

“Was it enough?”

Amélie laughed softly. “I can tell you want to keep going.”

The spider looked away, embarrassed, and Amélie smiled, touching her jaw and guiding her to return her gaze. “We can keep going later, Fatale. I know you're eager… but I still want my wine.”

“But are you _satisfied?_ ” Fatale said.

Amélie kissed her, just once. “Yes... I'm satisfied for now.”

“Then that’s all I wanted,” Fatale whispered, and the two curled around one another in the dark, as the last of the evening light faded from the world.


End file.
